


Make it up to me

by fictionallemons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Road Head, Sexual Fantasy, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/pseuds/fictionallemons
Summary: Dean demands road head after Sam screws up on a hunt, to Sam's surprise.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 207





	Make it up to me

**Author's Note:**

> This is maybe the most PWP-ish fic I've ever written.

Sam knows he screwed up. He had hesitated and the ghost got in an extra swing, and if Dean hadn't been able to literally toss a lighted match six feet over to the diary that the spirit had been attached to, one or both of them might have been dead.

Dean's pissed, by the set of his shoulders and the stiffness of his gait as he marches toward the Impala, throwing everything inside with extra force, slamming the door after he slides behind the wheel.

"Dean—I'm sorry," Sam says, once they're on the road.

Dean says nothing. He just grunts. Sam tries to relax against the passenger door. Dean will get over it, eventually. Night falls, but they don't stop for food. Instead, Dean breaks the silence with a growl. "You fucked up, Sam."

"I know," Sam says quickly, still sorry. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, you shouldn't." Dean's voice is hard, cold. "And you're going to have to make it up to me."

"Make it up to you? How?" Sam's not sure what Dean means.

His brother leaves one hand on the wheel, going an easy sixty five down the highway, takes the other and reaches for his belt. Sam's not sure what's happening, but then he realizes Dean's undoing his belt, and unbuttoning his fly. He's touching himself, Sam notes distantly. What the fuck?

Dean shifts and there's a rustle of of fabric and then Sam knows Dean's pulled his cock free. He can see it, jutting hard at an angle, pointing the general direction of the steering wheel.

Dean glances sidelong at Sam, smirks. "Well, come on. It's not going to suck itself."

Sam flushes, smiles uncertainly. "What?"

"You heard me. Come on, Sammy, you know what you gotta do. You fucked up, now you gotta make it right."

Sam licks his lips, can't seem to stop his eyes from zeroing in on his brother's erect cock. Still, he waits. Dean's gotta be fucking with him, right?

"If your mouth is not on my dick in two seconds, I swear to God, Sammy, you will regret it." Dean sounds serious, and seriously pissed. Sam finds himself scooting across the bench seat.

"That's better." Sam finds himself responding to the faint note of approval in Dean's tone. "Now get to work, little brother."

Sam eyes the cock in front of him, can't imagine actually fitting the whole thing in his mouth, but decides to do his best. He leans forward, slotting himself between Dean's body and the dash, just enough room for his head to fit, for his mouth to slot over Dean's cock. He takes the tip into his mouth carefully, licks experimentally. Dean tastes like he smells—sweat and salt and spice. Sam's cock jolts when he realizes he likes it. Then he feels Dean's hard, firm hand covering the back of his skull, pushing him down, and the sensation of being pushed, by his brother's strong hand, onto his brother's strong cock— _holy fuck_ —his own cock swells further in his jeans, and his throat opens up to take the thick, hot slide of Dean's dick all the way inside.

Dean bottoms out and Sam struggles to keep his lips wrapped around the shaft without gagging. There's spit everywhere. Dean groans and grits out, "Yeah, that's it. Suck it, Sammy," and Sam lets out an involuntary moan as he sucks harder.

Dean keeps his hand on the back of Sam's head and starts thrusting up. Sam has nowhere to go but keep still while his brother fucks into his mouth. He'd anchored his hands on the seat, but now he wishes he had one free to palm his own painfully hard cock. Dean keeps thrusting, keeps groaning, and Sam makes sounds that sound pathetic to his own ears. 

"You getting off on this, Sam? Not part of the deal, but whatever. You just keep it up, little brother. I could do this all night. Just keep you here, warming my cock, choking on it. We've got miles to go with my cock down your throat, your mouth stretched out around me. Maybe next time you won't wait until a ghost almost fucking kills us before doing what you're supposed to, huh? Unless you like getting your mouth stuffed full of your big brother's dick? Is that it? You like it, Sammy? Then I'll have to think of something else for next time. Yeah, maybe next time I'll strip you naked and fuck you spread out on the hood, on the side of the road where anyone passing by can see me taking it out of your ass."

Sam listens to Dean's incessant words, his jaw aching, his eyes watering, his cock hard as nails. He's pressing it into the leather, humping the seat, and all of a sudden Dean's hand leaves the back of Sam's head and comes down in a hard smack on his ass and Sam comes in his jeans with a shout smothered by Dean's cock against his vocal chords.

"You dirty little slut, you fucking come?" Dean's back to growling, and his hand is back to Sam's head, and he's all business now, grabbing a fistful of Sam's hair and thrusting up, hard, hips lifting off the seat, Sam helpless to do anything except take the mouth fucking. He groans in mingled regret and relief when Dean finally starts shooting his load into the back of Sam's throat. 

Sam swallows as best he can, but he's exhausted and his mouth is stretched raw, his lips numb. Dean holds him there an extra minute, until his cock, still half-hard, finally, slips out and Sam sits up, dazed.

"You are a fucking mess, Sammy," Dean says. "Clean yourself up."

Sam ignores the bandana Dean passes him, instead leans over to kiss Dean, sloppy and deep, until Dean pushes him off, laughing a little. "Fuck, I'm still driving, Sam."

"Sorry." Sam can't imagine how Dean hasn't run them into a ditch by now, but he's still cruising along, mile markers falling like soldiers on the side of the road. "That was just—thanks."

"Yeah?" Dean's growl has disappeared, replaced by something soft and fond. "What you wanted? It was okay?"

"Exactly what I wanted. Exactly how I pictured it."

Sam can make out Dean's smile in the dark. "Well, good," he says, gruff.

They're silent and another couple of miles go by. "So, you got any fantasies you want to try?" Sam asks.

Dean turns to glance at Sam, winks. "I'm sure I can think of something."


End file.
